


All Men (Reach and Fall)

by TheMostePotente



Category: Wicked Gentlemen - Ginn Hale
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Drug Addiction, M/M, Steampunk, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-19
Updated: 2013-02-19
Packaged: 2017-11-29 20:55:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/691345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMostePotente/pseuds/TheMostePotente
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every man has his price, every man has his breaking point.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Men (Reach and Fall)

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written in 2008. Just a little homage to Ginn Hale and her fabulous book, Wicked Gentlemen. Characters written with her permission.

**All Men (Reach and Fall)**

::::

All men reach.

I did. For the stars, mostly. Tangible, yet unattainable bodies. Like everything in my life. 

Outside, the rain is falling in droves. Threatening to extinguish the light I actually can stand.

Inside, the light is unbearable, burning the surfaces of manflesh I was never meant to wear.

I am a demon, once proud, forever stricken. Long ago I was beautiful, but my body is rotting from the inside out. And that despot, their false king, is about to use that rot as his bargaining chip. I want to flay the flesh from Abbot Greeley's bones. I want to show him my personal Hell, but I can't. The throne of Rimmon is in ruins. I am a demon, yes, but despoliation I've always left to chance, either with the flip of a coin or the toss of a card. I may have a black and festering heart, but Hells Below I have one that beats with the thrum of a scattershot snare. Perhaps, it's why I've allowed no one to touch me there again. 

Fifty coins. Fifty lousy, fucking coins is all it would take to free him. I've sold my body as a whore. I know the feel of fifty coins in my hand. Strangely enough, I cannot seem to grasp the concept of fifty, though. It may as well be one hundred, one thousand. His name will never leave my parched and bloodied lips.

When my silence proves fruitless through cooperation alone, the Abbot orders me to answer to his prayer engines. The Inquisitors' Deus Ex Machina made flesh; my people have come to fear the teachings of steam-powered whirs and hisses. Twelve needles divine the Scriptures of twelve Apostles, etching their laws in holy wisdom across my arms and back. How I want to gut these men and use their innards to tar the decaying roofs of the tenements in Hells Below. 

"His name," Greeley asks, a smile as sweet as a butter pastry.

"Never," my broken throat croaks. And then I catch sight of the glass syringes. Even we are not immune to the diseases of men. 

The ophorium burns trails of fire through my being. Floating, flying I dream of an anti-hero, his voice cigarette-rough, his hands leather bound. To save me. Oh, to save me. But such a man does not exist, and such hopes are folly. 

The pain blurs into pleasure, and my body betrays my iron will.

All men reach, yes.

"Sariel," I whisper unashamedly.

But all men fall. 

-=The End=-


End file.
